Sherry Thomas - Beguiling the Beauty

On the other hand, would he have desired her less if she’d proved herself utterly indifferent? Would it not have simply whet his appetite and made her even more coveted a prize?

“One hears talk that you have commissioned quite the grand repast for tomorrow evening at the Savoy,” Mrs. Easterbrook continued.

Had she been any other woman he’d have told her in no uncertain terms to mind her own affairs. But here it was imperative that he spoke of the baroness in as warm a tone as publicly permissible.

“Yes,” he said. “I look forward to a delightful evening tomorrow.”

If she came.

She must. She could not desert him in his hour of need. But—the thought suddenly occurred to him—if she’d already arrived in London, would she not somehow hear of his imbroglio with Mrs. Easterbrook? And would she not interpret the public attention he was paying Mrs. Easterbrook quite the wrong way?

Mrs. Easterbrook smiled slightly. “She is a very fortunate woman, your lady.”

“I am a very fortunate man, rather.”

To judge her expression was like trying to gauge the variation in the sun’s intensity by staring directly into it. But he thought she looked wistful. “And this is the last time I will see you, I take it?”

“Which I’m sure must be a relief to you.”

She arched a brow. “You presume to know how I think?”

“Very well, then. It will be a relief to me.”

She tilted her umbrella slightly away from her person. “There are those who like me for the way my nose sits on my face—a ridiculous reason to like someone. But it’s also a fairly ridiculous reason to not like someone—as it is in your case.”

“I disapprove of your character, Mrs. Easterbrook.”

“You don’t know my character, sir,” she said decisively. “The only thing you know is my face.”

Christian did not give many dinners. And when he did, the dowager duchess usually oversaw the necessary arrangements. But for this particular dinner, he presided over every detail.

Several private dining rooms had been rejected as either too stuffy or too floridly ornate. And when he did finally settle on one, he had the hotel change the staid still life painting on the wall for a seascape reminiscent of the one in the Victoria suite. Instead of flowers, for the centerpiece he commissioned an ice sculpture of frolicking dolphins. He also decreed that there should be no harsh electrical lights, but only candle flame—and not from tallows, either: nothing but the best beeswax tapers for her.

The proposed menu he’d sent back with the direction that it should consist of a clear consommé, a sole poached in broth, a braised duckling, a rack of lamb broiled with herbs, a filet of venison—and nothing else. Which had quite offended the chef, who apparently believed a romantic dinner should be conducted like a state banquet.

L’amour, he declared, wagging his finger at Lexington, must be fortified by plenty of food and plenty of flesh. Milord was already too thin himself. His night with milady might as well be two skeletons rattling in a medical laboratory!

Lexington did not yield—he had no intention of feeding his lady comatose. Finally, the Frenchman gave up on the main courses. But he would not limit himself on the desserts—none of the fresh fruit served à nature nonsense. There would be a charlotte russe, a crème renversée, a vanilla soufflé, a chocolate mousse, a pear tart, and a plum cake.

“We will still be eating at dawn,” said Lexington, not without admiration for the man’s dedication to his ideals.

The Frenchman kissed his fingertips. “Et après, you will be all the better for l’amour, milord.”

Christian arrived half an hour early to the dinner. The table was being set as he walked into the room, crystal finger bowls, silver saltcellars, footed bowls holding grapes, figs, and cherries laid down at careful distances upon the blue damask cloth.

This wait was nothing at all of the pleasurable anticipation on the Rhodesia. He was normally disciplined—a gentleman did not fidget—but several times he had to stop his fingers from tapping on the windowsill. He wanted a stiff drink and a cigarette. He wanted different curtains for the room. He wanted the painting changed again.

If she would only come, all would be well.

But what if she didn’t?

The tapers were lit; the glasses sparkled in the lambent light. The ice sculpture was brought in, the dolphins leaping gracefully out of frozen waves. A sixty-year-old bottle of champagne was reverently laid on the sideboard, ready to be uncorked the moment she swept into sight.

She should already have presented herself. Etiquette dictated that one arrived to dinner at least a quarter hour before the stated time, out of respect for the delicate nature of soufflés, if nothing else.

Were European customs different? He ought to know—he’d spent time on the Continent. But he couldn’t think. He was in a state of mental blankness, one rung above outright panic—but only one rung.

At eight o’clock, a steward of the hotel discreetly inquired whether His Grace wished to begin serving dinner.

“Another quarter hour,” he said.

When another quarter hour had passed, he gave the same instructions.

At half past eight, no one asked him anything. The hotel staff, who had hovered about for the past hour, now made themselves scarce. A bottle of whisky appeared from nowhere. As did cigarettes, matches, and a carved ivory ashtray.

She’d given her word. Was her word of so little worth to her? And if it had been her intention to break her word from the beginning, why not send him a letter and let him know?

Could something unforeseen have befallen her? What if she were lying somewhere ill and uncared for? Again, she could have written, and he’d have been at her side in a heartbeat.

But he presupposed her ability and freedom to communicate. What if she were carefully watched, once she went back to wherever it was she must go?

He gave the possibility several minutes of anguished consideration before it occurred to him how ridiculously melodramatic it was. A woman under such medieval supervision would never have been allowed to cross the Atlantic on her own, let alone conduct an affair in full view of the passengers.

The explanation for her absence had been staring him in the face all the while, but he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge it: The affair meant nothing to her. He’d been the only one bewitched body and soul. For her, he’d been but a temporary source of entertainment, a way to pass the otherwise tedious hours in the middle of an ocean.

He’d been the one to press for a continuation of their affair beyond the voyage. He’d been the one to offer his heart, his hand, his every last secret. She never even gave her real name.

And, of course, never showed her face.

No, he could not doubt her. If he doubted her, he might as well doubt his ability to judge anything at all. It had to be as he’d feared, that she’d heard about Mrs. Easterbrook. God, what if she’d seen them driving together the day before? The sight of his eyes upon Mrs. Easterbrook would have refuted everything he’d told her about having put this obsession behind him.

And even if she had seen and heard nothing, did he still deserve her, he who came to the dinner with Mrs. Easterbrook’s words—You don’t know my character, sir. The only thing you know is my face—still echoing in his ears?

He’d dreamed of Mrs. Easterbrook again last night, an even more disturbingly domestic tableau of the two of them seated before a roaring fire, he writing letters, she reading a thickish book that looked as if it had come from his library. From time to time, his dream-self would look up from his task and gaze upon her. Except, instead of the hot, unhappy surges of possessiveness that had lately plagued him, he’d felt only a simple contentment at seeing her nearby.

He’d yet to dream of the baroness.

Still he compulsively watched the carriages coming to a stop before the hotel. London’s traffic was notorious at certain times of the day. A logjam, once formed, took a good, long while to clear. Perhaps she was caught in one. Perhaps she was boiling in impatience even as he sank slowly into despair. Perhaps—

Suddenly he became aware that he was no longer alone in the room. He spun around, hopes and fears incoherent in his chest.

But it was not her. It was only a uniformed porter of the hotel.

“Your Grace, a delivery for you.”

For the next three seconds, he still dared to let himself hope. Perhaps she was making a grand entrance. Perhaps she would be carried in like Cleopatra, hidden in a roll of fine carpet. Perhaps—

Three porters, grunting, pulled in a handcart.

A crevasse opened before him and in fell his heart. No need to remove the tarpaulin wrapping. He recognized the stone slab by its size and weight.

She had returned his present. She would have nothing more to do with him.

* * *

It was another hour before the duke left the hotel.

This time, Venetia was not waiting in a smelly hansom cab, but in a clean, elegant brougham, with tufted velvet seats, foot braziers, and tulip blossoms in bud vases mounted on brackets between the windows.

The baroness had leased the carriage. She even had her veiled hat, sitting on the seat beside her.

You still can, whispered a reckless voice inside her, as it had been whispering for the past three hours. Go on, intercept him. Just for tonight.